fight for your right
by dead end justice
Summary: He hates the other districts for this, for being so selfish as to let their children walk into the arena without proper training.


This is what I get for rereading The Hunger Games and trying to make Cato a human being. I don't know, I'm really attached to him, and I'm positive there's more to him. I'm determined to figure out what it is, at least, and this is my sad attempt of trying to analyze him. It probably sucks, so I'm sorry if you end up reading this. Don't kill me if he seems out of character, this is kind of how I see him. I'm actually really nervous about this, haha

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"The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory."  
— Marcus Tullius Cicero

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He's not counting, not really, but he's only been twelve for five months, three weeks, and two days. He's also not counting the number of days until he's too old to stand in the town square like he is, corralled into a tiny space with kids the same age as him like they're zoo animals. (It's around two thousand five hundred, if anyone wants to know, but don't hold him to it; he's not quite sure.)

There are two boys he's stuck between, limb to limb, and they can't be any more different. One has his arms crossed, glaring up at the stage in silent protest, like he's furious he's where he is. The other is shaking like a leaf, hands balled up into fists to keep his tremors at bay. Cato focuses on his sleeves that keep sliding down his arms, trying to roll them back up to his elbows, where they refused to stay.

He thinks he can play with his clothes all day, attempting to keep himself look prim and proper, just like he did when he left the house, but his attention is taken by the mayor and the escort in moments, his sleeves covering his fingers and brushing against his pants. He leaves them that way, enamored with the speech they're giving.

_Honor_, _glory_, _fame_, they promise, _your name in lights._

He's captivated by their words. He's not the only one, he can tell, if the way that boy next to him drops his arms and leans forward just a centimeter proves anything. To be the winner, to have people admiring you for your perseverance, strength, and bravery, sounds amazing. To be known throughout the nation as victorious…

Cato can almost see it now, how everyone would look at him, love him, want to _be _him for getting pulled out of the arena by a hovercraft in no other state than absolutely, one hundred percent _alive_. It's a rush and it hasn't even happened yet, but he can feel it. It tickles his toes and warms his entire body. The recognition, the grandeur, the pride of his family and his district and—

—and then his name is pulled from the bowl.

It seems to echo through the square, a little more than whisper in the wind. He shrinks into himself, the thoughts of a star-studded life evaporating into thin air, and he remembers he's only been twelve for five months, three weeks, and two days. He remembers the sleeves that are too long and the six years he has left.

He doesn't want fame or glory and even as the crowd parts to let him walk through—which he will, of course; there's nothing more embarrassing than having to be _dragged_ to the stage—he's become that of the boy to his right: a quivering mess.

Cato gets help when it comes to the first step. Someone shoves him forward from behind, another snaps at him to _get on with it, why don't you_, and he's walking slowly, slowly, slowly, his stomach dropping lower and lower into the ground as he gets closer.

When he hears the shout of "_I volunteer!_" a hand grips his wrist and pulls him back into the group, leveling him when he stumbles over his own feet. He doesn't know who helped him; he doesn't bother to look to see if he knows him.

Instead, he glares down at his shoes, seeing his face reflected in the shine. He looks like he's about to be sick, his cheeks pale, and when he presses his palm to them, he feels the clammy skin.

There's a seventeen year old in his place, shaking hands with the escort, and saying his name into the microphone. Cato doesn't catch it, taking deep, deep breaths to calm his nerves and the heart that's pounding painfully in his chest. He hates the way he feels now that he's gotten a taste of the Hunger Games. He practically felt himself dying as he shuffled forward, the life pouring out of him like rivulets of blood from a knife wound.

He's determined to never feel that way again.

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At the age of sixteen, Cato is no longer helpless. He lets that old feeling fuel him to become the best and it helps, shaping him into the biggest, most brutal boy in the Academy. It makes sense that he's in the top eight.

He should be thrilled—and he is, really—but he's more furious that the boy from Three lied to him—he really fucking hates liars—and their supplies were blown to bits. He had _trusted_ him. That's the last time he does something as foolish as that, that's for sure.

He and Clove can't use the Cornucopia as a camp anymore, not when it's out in the open like that now, so he's leaning up against a tree, taking watch. It's uncomfortable and he hates it, almost as much as he hates the rest of this arena. He's out of his element here—he can't walk quietly enough in the foliage and he doesn't even know how to make a fire out of sticks and rocks.

They definitely should have taught him that at the Academy.

What bothers him more than that, though, is when the artificial stars disappear to make way for the kills of the day, and he sees the little girl from Eleven. He remembers her from training, the way she reeked of childlike innocence, and could hardly throw a knife to save her life. He never once saw her as a threat. He actually had assumed she'd starve or something and he wonders who killed her off and why they did it.

Her face is small, just like she is, with big eyes and hair in pigtails. He can't see it now, not in this picture—she's trying to look indifferent—but he knows from the recap of the Reaping that she was scared. Terrified, even, and he hates that he knows what that feels like. He hates that he knows what it's like to be unprepared to fight to the death but was saved at the last second. He's surprised to find that he hates that she ended up here.

Cato doesn't even know her name. He never bothered to learn the other tributes', not unless they were an obstacle he had to overcome, and none of them really are. That Girl on Fire definitely is, but she'll be extinguished eventually, so he's not too worried.

His heart clenches painfully in his chest, reminiscent to that of four years ago, when he was walking to what literally would have been his death. This little girl should not be bothering him as much as she is and he wants to beat himself up for thinking about her.

He hates the other districts for this, for being so _selfish_ as to let their children walk into the arena without proper training. How can they do that? Don't they feel the tiniest bit of remorse when the youngest, the ones who've hardly experienced life, are shuttled to the Capitol?

The Games are about honor and there is absolutely nothing honorable about sending a twelve, thirteen, or even fourteen year old into a situation such as this. That's the best thing about District Two, he thinks. They protect the weaklings by sending the strong and while the best of the best are out, fighting for glory and the pride of their family and home, the scrawny are trained to defend themselves.

If they would only pull their heads out of their asses, they would see it. There's no use in trying to defy the Capitol the way they are. What they can do instead of wasting their time and talent is _help_ them. Make it so the Games are more exciting, so the other districts are more than pathetic, poor, and stupid.

Eleven's face is gone, replaced by Marvel's, and Cato can tell from the outrageous smirk on the boy's face that he's the reason that girl is gone. It makes sense, of course; District One is so full of themselves, they just have to show off every chance they get. Cato bets they never told their children how dishonorable it is to kill someone who can't fight back. It's only allowed during the Bloodbath when you have to prove your dominance.

He's never been able to kill someone who can't duel with him properly. Even that girl at the fire—he had only wounded her and stalked off. He's not much of a ruthless killing machine, is he?

He's never been much of one anyway. He wants to get the glory, the riches, and the fame the _right_ way. He wants to fight people who can stand against him. There's no satisfaction in sneaking up behind them to end their lives. That's what the rest of the Careers are for.

Knowing he put up a good fight—and his opponent did, too—is more than enough. It proves to the world that he's worthy, that he deserves to be called a victor, that he has the brains _and_ the brawn. It's more than just luck.

If only they taught that to all the districts… maybe this game would be a lot more fun to play.


End file.
